


You Need a Break

by zeke_pliskin



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 03:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7742437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeke_pliskin/pseuds/zeke_pliskin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Commission for kazssunglasses.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Need a Break

Sometimes, you just needed a break.

 

Being on the medical team for the newly-reassembled (and highly illegal) Overwatch Initiative was tough, and oftentimes, you found yourself struggling through the horrors of battle and war. Your job was an endless parade of wounds and gore, from Junkrat’s mangled and ill-maintained limbs to the tender scar tissue on 76’s face.

 

But one man in particular seemed to have a knack for getting himself into your arms.

 

Jesse McCree, outlaw and vigilante, was well-known amongst the group as something of a loose cannon. He was reckless, wild, full of classic American spirit...and it seemed he'd taken a special interest in you.

 

Your time together began with the stitching of a wound, a nasty gash to his right cheek, directly under his eye. He was twitchy, pumped full of adrenaline and energy, and you had to smile and gently remind him to sit still.

 

“Shit, you weren't there, you don't know! It was amazing, fought ‘em all off, all by my lonesome! Well, at least, till Jack came and helped me out.”

 

His cocky attitude and earnest excitement quickly won you over, and before long, you found yourself taking his treatments personally. Over time, your chats went from pertaining solely to battle to learning about each other and the lives you led.

 

His name was  _ Jesse,  _ and oh, no name in the world ever sounded so sweet. 

 

He was from New Mexico, with his love of open spaces and bruised-hue skies at dusk...and you suddenly knew why everyone romanticized cowboys and their wanderlust. He told such stories, of bravado and fate and daring--no one in the world seemed quite so brave as Jesse McCree.

 

Your own struggles, however, were entirely different.

 

The stress of this job, as helpful as you were and and welcome as everyone made you feel, often got to you in ways no one could ever express.

 

Ways that were not always entirely related to your work.

 

Depression is crippling, that’s what your supportive family and friends told you before you shipped out with “government work.” They wished you to stay safe, take care of yourself, don’t let yourself get caught up in the woes of the world and the job. After all, “you’re saving lives, and that’s what matters.”

 

It didn’t feel like saving lives, not even with your hero cowboy now at your side.

 

No, too many dark thoughts of despair rattled in your head, and you began to question your worth as both a medical professional and a living human. What was your purpose? Why were you even there? Doctor Zeigler was talented, kindhearted, and able to cure any wound. The other staff had been trained by her, but you’d been brought on by an informant scout. Were you up to snuff?

 

Did the others think of you the way you thought of yourself?

 

Time slowly, agonizingly crept on; and the frequency of Jesse’s visits to the clinic declined. He didn’t want to be around you. No one wanted to be around you.

 

Isolated and afraid, your mind reeled and your heart sank.  _ Too much, too much, just need a break,  _ came the screams from an unhinged psyche. 

 

Like every medical journal you’d read, like every time you’d come across it in the field, you saw your own symptoms snowball before your very eyes. Nothing could be done though, no force of will could budge this disdain and terror lurking in your head...and then came the numbness.

 

Cold, terrible inability to feel at all. 

 

And scalpels were an easy grab.

 

Soon, your life became a game of making sure no one saw you fresh out of the shower, never rolling up sleeves too far, never inviting anyone in to this dark and suppressed world you’d created for yourself. Pain hurts, but pain feels like something. It was keeping you alive, you rationalized. 

 

You were saving a life.

 

And you needed a break.

 

The day that he finally found you was in the fall. You were in your bunk, asleep, with the windows open and the crisp breeze floating in through the windows...a rare and pleasant dream danced through your head of home, of your beloved cat and the world you left behind for this place. This rancid hole of disease and death and--

 

“Darlin’!!”

 

Your eyes snapped open, for Jesse had shaken you awake and roused you from your dreams. 

 

“Mmh,” you grumbled, rubbing your eyes with the heel of one hand, “What is it n--Jesse!”

 

He embraced you tightly, just as he’d done in the past, returning every ounce of your renewed enthusiasm. This  _ vaquero  _ had been gone far too long for your liking, but the feeling of his solid form pressed against you was a comfort like none other.

 

His deep laugh resonated through your entire body, a mahogany chuckle, and his gentle squeeze resulted in a bit of fabric falling from your shoulder.

 

“Darlin’...what...is this…,” he asked haltingly, calloused fingertips brushing the raised and angry rivers on your upper arm. “Did someone hurt you?”

 

“No,” came the whispered response, as you hurriedly replaced your shirt shoulder and avoided his gaze. “Don’t worry about it, Jesse, I’m fine.”

 

“Yer a damn liar,” he spat back, taking hold of your wrists and raising your arms. Attempting to wrest yourself away was futile--if Jesse was anything, he was strong. “What the hell….”

 

His tone changed then, from anger to sadness, metallic digits gliding over freshly-inflicted wounds. You could see the tenderness in his eyes, but also the heartbreak...as though he were gazing upon some beloved thing that he could not recover.

 

“I’m sorry,” you sniffled, bringing one released hand to your face and covering your nose and mouth. “You must hate me for this. I’m so, so sorry.”

 

He was quiet, for a long while, before reaching out and cradling you against his chest. Jesse’s words came softly, but they brought you unending joy nonetheless. 

  
“Oh, darlin’, no, I do  _ not _ hate you, I couldn’t. Why, I...love you.”


End file.
